and don't play, cause you've had your shot
by letscall-l
Summary: She’s probably the only seventeen year old girl in the world who’s mom enforces a ‘no-closed-door-policy’. Then again she’s probably not. Alex Russo/Mitchie Torres


**Title:** And don't play, cause you had your shot  
**Author:** letscall_l  
**Fandom: **Mitchie Torres / Alex Russo (was originally a Lovez)  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own or mean to offend. Do not redistribute.  
**Warning**: tame nc-17  
**Word count:** 1981  
**Summary:** She's probably the only seventeen year old girl in the world who's mom enforces a 'no-closed-door-policy'. Then again she's probably not.

_Author's note: Based of the colorwithme prompt_

* * *

Mitchie is a good listener. She knows this for a fact. She's always the first to answer her phone, the longest to stay on the line and the never the first to hang up. Whether its calling Nolan about whats happening back home or listening to Miley tell her '7 things' she loves but hates about _twitter_. She's the first to ask for feedback on her new songs, eagerly taking in every comment and adjustment. Everyone on set with 'Sonny' is accustomed to the fact she has and always will be the last to leave after a read-through.

But sometimes Mitchie worries that good listening skills count for nothing if there's too much to listen to at once.

Its an innocent set-up. A movie flashes on screen as they both lip-sync along with the lines they know so well. Mitchie is pressed against her side, on top of her navy bed sheets because Alex _somehow_ lost the blanket they were sitting on two scenes ago.

And the thing is Mitchie really wants to listen to Cady Heron tell Regina about Janis Ian and crack, despite knowing that she could probably act the whole film out in her sleep- but she can't listen to Lindsay Lohan for multiple and developing reasons.

Like Dallas' obnoxiously loud and obnoxiously bad dance music. Mitchie had stressed to her older sister time and time again that the volume button doesn't need to be altered if Mitchie can hear it from the driveway. (_But, like all attempts, Dallas just fires back_ 'heavy metal' _and __Mitchie__ scowls all the way back to her room._)

However the thumping music wouldn't be so bad if she could _actually close her door._

Almost as if to taunt herself, Mitchie looks sadly at the ajar space and feebly tries to manipulate the unmoving wood with her _gangster-mental_ powers.

She gets about as far as humming '_B to the O to the U'_ under her breath when whispers trace like tiny brushstrokes over her ear; Mitchie groans as she remembers _why_ she can't close the door.

Even the small, mischievous, smile Mitchie catches Alex giving her, from the corner of her eye; isn't enough to block out the vivid image of her mom's raised eyebrow and hands steeled on counters that _always_ mean business or consequence - from filling up her mind.

Alex obviously doesn't remember that whole conversation she listened into sundays ago, just like she doesn't detect the thoughts passing in Mitchie's head as her nose lightly brushes Mitchie's soft cheek. Mitchie keeps quiet because Alex is doing it all on purpose. Like she has been since the DvD menu screen came up. And no matter how many pleading pouts Mitchie sends her way, Alex keeps getting closer, tingling touches on her thigh and provoking noises that do exactly what Alex wants by keeping Mitchie on edge.

It kinda makes Mitchie want to dramatically fling herself off the bed in order to save her virtue (_or the little she still has left)_.

She's probably the only seventeen year old girl in _the world_ who's mom still enforces a '_no-closed-door-policy'._

Then again she's probably not.

Its just moments like now; when Alex is steadily rising on her knees, her hand undecided between exploring the toned skin of her tour-tired stomach or the slope of her hips, that Mitchie wants to either be rescued or suggest that they go to Alex's house instead.

Alex's knees weighing down the mattress either side of her hips tell her that the girl isn't going to wait through a twenty minute drive.

Mitchie's fingertips start to tingle like she's wired to energy she can't wield with a guitar. Wired in Alex's stare and unwavering determination to listen to how her touches produce sounds that no backing tracks can every get right.

Mitchie wants to enjoy it, she does - _contrary to the way the media perceives their promises and their friendship_ - moments spent curled into Alex's back, coated in a slick sheen and out of rhythm heartbeats. Sharing more than just the lazily accomplished grins in the afterglow. She wants to enjoy Alex tugging open the top button on her blouse and stroking the skin beneath.

But her mind is freaking out over how Alex doesn't seem to be conscious of how wide open her door _actually_ is and that Mitchie's room basically becomes another corner in the hallway.

Or that pushing Mitchie on to her back and grinding their denim clad centers together, no matter how _good_ it feels, is _actually_ going to get them caught. Though Dallas' music drowning out the breathy little moans she's making isn't helping Mitchie's case.

Alex rocks her hips again, letting her arms rest behind her head; at that point Mitchie can only hope they won't get caught in too bad of a position.

Somehow her submission is noted as Alex advances up her body. Mitchie lets her mouth blissfully remap Alex's lips, moving against each other in a rolling motion that still reminds Mitchie that its kind of wrong for Alex to be ignoring the movie, the one she's suggested in the first place. Unfair and wrong.

Alex's nimble fingers carelessly pop the button on Mitchie's jeans and the backlash quakes straight to her core.

Its _really_ unfair.

Alex smiles into the kisses that ebb into butterfly pecks as she has to concentrate. Mitchie can feel her girlfriend's palm rub between her legs and suddenly hates denim so much because its blocking Alex from her heat.

She can't for the life of her remember what possessed her sleep-deprived self to pick out said acquired jeans, before breakfast, for when Alex arrived. She should have been more prepared for their eventual reunion and predicted this. Instead of being tricked by black skinny legs seducing her with their low rise waistline and tiny belt loops.

Mitchie vows never to fall for an item of clothing with so many hang ups.

Alex's hand tugs impatiently at the tight zip and for a brief second between Mitchie stifling a groan at how turned on it was making her feel, she can see her girlfriend visibly share her thoughts over the impossibility of her jeans. No matter how much Alex stared at her ass in them.

The futile defense doesn't last for much longer.

Mitchie is so thankful for _Timbaland'_s thudding remixed beat that disguises her startled cry as Alex's hand _somehow_ finds its way in between Mitchie's hot center and the opening of her jeans.

Alex's got a victorious glint in her eyes that Mitchie just wants to wipe away. Vicious, spiteful kisses that bite at her red lips are Mitchie's only denial that she doesn't pull Alex's short hair tighter and harder everytime Alex manages to _slip her_ fingers in _deeper._

The thought and the ever close feel of Alex sliding in and out of her so _easily_ has Mitchie running her hands uncontrollably all over Alex's body, desperate for the extra stimulation and skin contact that an open door won't allow them.

Mitchie feels her eyes water at how _badly_ she actually wants Alex to bring her over. To have her girlfriend pleasure her for the first time in months and know that she won't be the only one who knows. Going against her mother's rules and letting Alex work her faster. Words and buzzing desires that fill her mind-scape with plans and promises and _wants_.

Its making her blush so hard which she knows Alex loves the most. Watching the red paint her pale face until Mitchie can't physically handle Alex looking at her anymore. Looking until Mitchie buries her face into her pulse, unable to stop the string of pants and moans she makes as she nips at Alex's neck everytime the girl _pushes in_- telling Mitchie just how _wet_ she is for her and how _tight_ she feels around her manicured fingers. The nails that only add to the pressure when Mitchie feels Alex curl inside her like she's oblivious to how Mitchie's hips rut against her.

Alex listens too. But its not to the conversations or the compliments or the questions to which she devotes her ear to. No.

She prefers the half-sobbing, whimpers of frustrated release that Mitchie keeps tensely murmuring into her collar - _asking_ - begging for Alex to just let her _come_.

Mitchie knows thats what Alex hears in her songs, in her solos and long held notes, Mitchie knows for every '_Got Dynamite_' Alex pictures Mitchie's panting face beneath her.

And for every solo Mitchie sees Alex's flustered but proud grin above her.

---

Mitchie struggles to regain control over the last part of a song she didn't start singing in the first place; while Alex doesn't miss a beat as she excuses herself, with a suggestive smirk, to Mitchie's adjoining bathroom.

Mitchie stares, dazed, over the end of her bed after her, propped up on her elbows. The '_what-just-happened_' vibe kicks in, while her unfulfilled ache underneath her girl-boxers curses her jeans for what seems to be the millionth time. Mitchie can't even move in the dim room because she feels strangely lightheaded.

Alex closes the door and clicks the bathroom lock behind her. It sounds like an air-rifle and Mitchie is filled with the worst kind of sickly dread.

Its quiet.

Her neck trembles against her collar because her elbows just _ache_ and Mitchie didn't know her whole body could burn so much, from something other than arousal, when she hesitantly meets Dallas' smug face leaning against the doorframe.

Mitchie's heart drops.

Her sister's brown eyes are scarily similar to Alex's determined ones, that bore into her while she _fucked her_, and Mitchie can't believe she's so _wet_, and Dallas' is looking at her smirking because she's totally heard them and kinda knows that Mitchie is probably soaking through her jeans, or something.

Mitchie doesn't have to say anything to Dallas about not letting their mom because her sister wouldn't do that. But there's nothing in Dallas' teasing expression that hides the fact there is no way in hell Mitchie is ever going to win an argument with her again.

There isn't a sound from Alex in the bathroom, who is totally lucky not to be facing Dallas, unsure whether or not to move or something; just to get Dallas to confirm the fact that Mitchie is going to have to be her _slave-_

Mitchie's hips twitch.

Scratch the last imagery, bad use of wording.

Dallas' foot swings in and out of the doorway and she scans her knowing eyes over Mitchie's disheveled arrangement.

Mitchie holds her breath.

"Zip up your jeans _Slut_-orres, and keep it down - I'm _trying_ to listen to music over here!"

Mitchie's hands fumble awkwardly over her crotch and Dallas makes sure that she can hear her over-exaggerated porno-impression of her as she leaves.

Mitchie then does what every sexually frustrated teen does when their irresistible girlfriend gets them off, when they really shouldn't, only to discover that their older sister heard it all and will continue to use it against them so that they can never tell their mom about that _one time_ 'said older sister' came home drunk after dancing on tables.

Mitchie buries her head in her pillow and tries to ignore that she can't feed the dull throb between her legs because of her jeans. Life sucks.

The bathroom lock clicks.

Mitchie is so screwed.


End file.
